Tequila and Tacos
by demuredemeanor
Summary: A night out in a Mexican restaurant, in a tiny booth, surrounded by tequila shots and tacos leads to an abrupt Castle and a clammy Kate.
1. Chapter 1

It's cramped, tight. He's too close, body a heavy weight against her side, warm, welcoming and she's leaning in. She is.

It's the tequila.

The damn trays of it.

Cheap shots.

A celebration.

Of what she doesn't even remember, doesn't even care.

She thinks it was someone's birthday.

All she was told was come with them all, to follow. He'd invited himself, or the boys had invited him. She wasn't sure.

But he's here. Here beside her, a heavy weight at her side.

It's too hot, too cramped for such proximity. But then his knuckle brushes her leg, an accident.

Then his mouth is at her ear, too close and too loud.

"You should eat something, soak up some of the shots."

She smirks at him and shakes her head.

"_You_ should eat something," she mimics him. His are the words that are too loud, slurring a little, a distinct glint shining in his eye. He's heavy with it, his body humming beside her, emitting so much heat she would normally be sweating or shoving him away. But she's not.

She's had a few.

Enough to ease the tension of the day. Enough make it seem like she's part of the celebrations, whatever they're about.

He holds a taco in front of his mouth, hovering, stealing himself to take a bite.

"If you're going to throw-up," she threatens.

"I won't," he protests, looks offended.

She continues like he hasn't spoken. "If you're going to throw up, you need to tell me. I need to get out of the way, Castle." She will have to hurry too, slide off the edge of the bench and let him out, give him an escape.

"Kate," he starts.

But she moves her hand between them, a shield. "Close your mouth or swallow the food." She doesn't need to see that. Drunk or not he can at least pretend to have some manners.

He swallows and she watches the lump slide down his throat and while she's distracted he slides closer (how, she isn't sure, but he manages it) and touches her knee, deliberate, a thumb touching the soft exposed skin on the inside of her leg.

He's got his arm across her lap, holding her to him, no escape.

"Sorry," he mutters, this time effectively managing to control the volume.

"You'll get us kicked out," she mutters, like it's a conspiracy. Then she realises. Her mouth is slack too, free.

"We won't get kicked out." He waves his other hand, brushing his fingers over her legs.

Then Lanie slides another across to them, one each.

Kate shakes her head, she's had enough. But her friend is flicking her eyes to the boys, both already gulping theirs down. She's glad others aren't at the tiny booth, her team, that's all she needs to unwind, relax. And she's unwound, relaxed, his body slack against hers should signal to everyone within the immediate vicinity that she has. She blinks heavily, wonders how long they've been here. She can't remember if it's six shots or seven. She knows she kept up initially, but then the second tray arrived and it became a jumble. Castle stealing one from her hand so she'd taken one he'd nursed, claiming he couldn't find some salt. She'd taken that too.

Tomorrow she'll be getting a call at an unreasonable hour so it's time to slow down, ease back at a reasonable hour on this end of the night. The only reason she's here to begin with is that they closed their case and she couldn't find an excuse to _not_ come. But now she's here, she's glad.

His hand is still warm on her leg.

He picks up the small glass, moving to pass it to her. "For you," he says softly, smirking.

She flicks her eyes to Lanie and finds her watching them, their closeness and their proximity. She narrows her eyes at her friend, flicking her eyes at Esposito. He's much closer than Castle, more daring and more certain. But it's the same.

Lanie relents and Kate's smug.

"Kate?" he asks.

She brings her attention back to him, back to the face that's an inch from hers. She wants to touch him, run her fingers over the laugh lines so well worn they're visible while he frowns. Wait, he's frowning, why?

"Take it," he lifts it a little further. She ignores the fact the liquid sloshes, slides down the edge of the glass and drips onto her thigh.

"I can't, Castle," she whispers and meets his eyes.

He understands and doesn't question. "Okay," he says softly as he presses it to his mouth and gulps it down.

He hands her the empty glass and takes the other off the table.

"Lanie won't even notice, just hold it a second then set it down when I do." He gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. "But you owe me," he mutters as he leans against his other elbow, body now facing her, hand still on her knee, absently stroking.

She watches his next shot drip once onto the dark denim of his jeans. Then flicks his eyes up to his and nods once. She does owe him. An unrepayable debt of time and missed opportunities. Sure, he contributed before, but now he's waiting on her.

"I owe you," she agrees as he tips the glass back and takes the shot, for her, again.

"Hmm," he hums and sets the point of his chin onto her shoulder, the hard bone digging into her scapula, that hard point forming her shoulder. It hurts, but she owes him. And his breath on her neck, liquor and spice, is still warm and comforting.

"You should eat another one," she mutters, tipping her head closer to his but flicking her eyes to the plate in front of them, the jumble of soft and hard, chicken and beef. They were meant to share, but she's eaten two and has had enough. Happy with the hum of the alcohol and the weight of food in her stomach, the weight of him on her shoulder.

He squirms at her side, turning to stare at the plate too.

"Not hungry," he pouts, lip jutted in protest, like a toddler, stubborn and defiant.

He's probably not hungry.

"Castle," she mutters.

His head turns rapidly, just skimming hers, so close. "Hmm," he hums, voice thick and heavy.

"Those shots are going to hit you in a sec, you need to drink some water and eat something. I'm not taking you home covered in vomit." She wants to add that she doesn't want to wear it, but she thinks that might just go unspoken and he's so close, so warm that he might pull away in fear she's cowering at the thought. But she's not, really not. Plus, this way he'd probably be able to lunge across her and reach the floor.

She screws her face up and darts her eyes to the spot on the floor, the image of his hair at her lap as he leans over her to-

"Taking me home are you?" he murmurs and his fingers catch her eye, sliding and touching, climbing.

She swallows and blinks heavily, when she opens her eyes it's because a spark has shot through her skin. His fingers, at the hem of her dress, lifting it, slowly.

He slides his fingers once more, touching the legs she's got squeezed so tightly together, knees clamped together, a vice, a protest from earlier. But now, they slacken, against her will, of course. It's the tequila, still burning her throat.

She swallows as she wonders if his throat burns too, it has to be. He took two shots without the lemon, without a swish of water on his tongue. It has to burn.

But then he burns her again, his fingers daring and she closes her eyes and lifts them.

"Share?" he offers it to her, holds half the taco out in front of her.

She swallows and flicks her eyes to his.

She touches his hand and lets him guide it to her mouth. She bites it carefully and chews slowly, watching him.

His palm flattens on her thigh, hot and clammy as he leans closer, prodding her to take another bite.

She does. She has no reason not to, no objection to make.

"Good?" he asks quietly, before he shoves the last of it into his own mouth, fingertips twitching slightly on her thigh, like he's trying to steal her attention.

"Yeah," she nods, agreeing.

"More?" he asks, gathering another, miraculously handling it with one hand, keeping it folded, even folding it a little further.

She shakes her head, she's fine, eaten more than enough, drank more than enough. He's always trying to feed her.

"Your loss," he announces quietly as he settles back against the cushion of the bench and takes a large bite. She watches as he rejoins the conversation, his fingers shifting lightly against her skin. She wonders if he is aware of his hand, where it is and why it's there. She wonders if it's deliberate, where it is and what it's doing.

Then he launches himself into the conversation. She's not even listening, just watching them all turn and laugh at whatever he's said, his charisma, his spark stealing their attention, like it's stolen hers.

She leans her shoulder against him further, wedging it behind his arm, hidden, pressing into his ribs. He doesn't acknowledge the move in any way, other than skimming his hand over her skin.

To the others, she's leaning heavily against him, tired or just unable to hold herself up, dizzy with the chemicals coursing through her blood.

He flips his hand, jumps it to her other leg, resettles higher still.

But then he shrugs and laughs, all for show, for the table, not for her. It jolts her though and he slides his arm back, subtle, to support her.

She sucks her lip into her mouth, he may have slide his elbow back, his shoulder back to meet hers, but his hand slide too, ventured further. Now it's dangerously high.

Then his thumb skims the skin and the butt of his hand shuffles, dislodging her dress to an almost indecent level. She hides her face behind his shoulder, head resting heavily on the back of the booth, arm curled behind him.

He splays his fingers, sinking them between her legs.

"Castle," she warns quietly. Not sure if she means it or not.

He tips his head back a little, acknowledging, like she's talking to him he hums and nods more than necessary. Then steals another inch.

She presses her forehead against his back, firm beneath her and she realises she's certainly hiding now.

She swallows as she hears Lanie call her a party-pooper, too loud, drawing attention.

She feels Castle tense, stiffening in her defence. "Somebody skipped lunch and dinner and now can't stay away." He's teasing, slurring his words and she can hear the smirk.

A few of them chuckle and all she can do is shake her head against his shoulder, slow as the smile plays across her face.

He steals another fraction of skin, swift a quick, his pinkie finger her main culprit now, her first enemy.

She breathes across the thin material of his shirt, the heat of her forehead, her breath, causing her him to sweat. She can smell it, but it's not the putrid sweat that comes with exercise in blistering heat, it's from proximity, hers.

She touches her free hand to his back, trailing a finger over the cotton and he freezes, even the twitching of his thumb stopping. Then she realises, he may be fast succumbing to the effects of tequila and the atmosphere of mischief around them, but she can even the playing field, just a little, take some time to enjoy this herself.

She slides her fingers down to the hem of his shirt, tugging it free from the confines of his jeans, just the corner, just enough, then slides her fingers onto his skin, hot and clammy.

He grips her leg and sinks his pinkie finger into the skin, then slowly, deliberately using it like a lever for the rest of his hand.

She digs a nail into his skin, needing a vice, she feels him shift beside her, beneath her. But it's subtle, the others won't notice.

She pinches his skin, hard and presses her mouth, open and exhales harshly against the material of his shirt.

He deserves it.

He hasn't got an inch left to travel.

The next move will land them both in hot water, start something they can't stop. Something they'll need to finish. Something they'll be repeating.

Maybe more privately though, though, the thrill of them all being on the other side of his shoulder, watching and listening as he speaks to them, a tight control in his voice apparently only she knows him well enough to detect.

He laughs again, fake but believable. His attention is elsewhere, she knows. But it still shakes her and she quivers with anticipation. She clenches her arse and digs in her heels, bracing. Then as she feels his fingers lift, ready to glide over the skin again, find the smooth edge of her hip she does it.

She scoots forward a little, slipping across the varnished wood. The squeak against her sweaty legs is audible, but she's glad. The awkward noise conceals her soft moan, the groan she hears rumble through the wall of his chest, his back. She spreads her own palm flat against his back, clammy and hot.

She needs more, needs him closer, not just teetering at the skin, a precarious balance between the top of her leg and the bare skin of her hip.

He turns his head to look at her. "You okay back there? Not going to come and be social."

She narrows her eyes at him as she leans back to meet his gaze.

He is a horrible human being.

"If I have to," she bites, harsh and heavy. At least they'll believe she's tired.

"Have to," he agrees, fingers between her legs starting to move higher, so close she could-

She leans out from behind him, finds her friends all watching her. She blinks heavily, then scoots further forward on the bench, clamping her legs around his hand, he's not stealing distance like she is.

She moves so she's visible around his side, leaning heavily on the table, elbows and forearms there to support her, conceal his position a little.

Immediately the conversation she can't follow resumes and Lanie raises an eyebrow in her direction, unimpressed.

If only she knew.

Crap.

He's on the move again and she's got no hold on him, she's out on her own and it's his doing.

One by one he trails his fingers up to the position his pinkie landed as they dance further along, he is slowly leaning over her. By the time his thumb grazes the spot his fingers are wedged tight under the gather of her dress. It may have a loose skirt, but it clings to her hips, the lining does at least.

"Evil," he mutters.

Then he's coughing at her ear, over her shoulder, like he's trying be polite and avoid the main section of the table. She's disgusted until she realises he's faking. She hears him quickly suck in a breath, forcing it out.

"You okay, Castle?" she says, loud enough that the others can hear. So he has to make his point to them too.

He shakes his head, throat tight.

"You need to follow me, right now." He breathes and slides his thumb easily along the skin, the edge where the line of her panties should be, the line where there should be lace or elastic not hot clammy skin, radiating heat.

"Can't," she manages, loud enough that the others might catch it, "hear you."

He makes a noise deep in his throat, only she can hear, she's certain of that. She finds Lanie watching as she lifts her eyes to check, good.

"I need the bathroom. Now, Kate." He bites the words out, harsh and forcing control. But then he skims his fingers over the flat skin above his thumb, exploring, torturing.

"Can you get me a-" She stops as he presses his thumb down, forcing his way down, quick and hurried. But slow and mean.

She lifts her hips to his hand, urging him to actually make the contact, to press his thumb against her clit.

She drops them when he doesn't. "I'll go myself, seeing as I've got to get up anyway."

"Quick," he urges, withdrawing his hand and just pressing against the bare skin of her thigh.

"Busting?" she mocks. But she understands as she grabs her wallet, managing to smooth her dress as she stands, leaving only the typical rumple that occurs when sitting, balmy and drunk in a booth, huddled in tight.

He shakes his head and slides up close behind her.

"Anyone else want anything?" she asks, stopping on the edge of the bench, his chest against her back.

He expected her to stand, another point for her.

"Yeah, can-" Espo starts but stops as Kate flicks her eyes to Lanie, shaking her head as subtly as she can.

She watches her friend gape, drop her mouth open then stare at Castle's shoulder, hands now pressed into her back forcing her to stand or fall onto the floor.

Espo turns to her abruptly, questioning and she waves him off with a flick of the wrist. "We're good," she drawls. "Have fun."

She moves away from Castle, already headed away while she knows he battles with confusion with what just transpired and a desire to follow her.

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

He won't let her fall.

Words slurring, eyes hazy, senses alive, hands most certainly wandering, but he won't let her fall.

He sets a hand on her hip as she sways a little on those impossibly high heels.

Why she insists on wearing them is beyond him. But he's certainly not above complaining.

He doesn't care what she's saying to the rest of their table, just presses with his hand in harder and finds her ribs, not gripping, not wrapping his hands around her small frame, just hovering, knuckles grazing material.

She sidesteps him, but he catches her.

"This way," he mutters.

She chuckles. "Problem?" she asks, feigning an innocence she doesn't have, not in this moment.

He takes a larger step forwards. "You know my problems," he mutters it against the side of her head, body bumping hers.

He's not drunk. He's just got this happy haze surrounding him, lose and carefree. Reality is teetering on the edge of his subconscious. He knows this game is dangerous. He has to change the game and quick. He won't have her run.

"Where?" she asks, stopping in front of him, letting his body crash into her back, hands bracing on her hips by reflex.

"Um."

He can't think.

"Castle," she snaps.

Oh, she's gone, forging ahead – without him.

He swallows, shocked. But he follows, catching up, following her path through the crush of tables, the roar of the people, all drinking, eating and laughing.

He's not drinking, not anymore.

He won't be eating anything more either.

And the laughter, he has a feeling that's about to cease too.

He catches her as she pauses at a doorway, peeking around a corner a little. He sets his hands on her hips, trying to urge her forwards, begging her to move. But she spins in his arms and falls heavily back against the door jamb.

Not what he expected.

"Kate?" he asks quietly, a hand sliding over her stomach, one moving around her back as she watches him, flustered and bewildered.

The flush that rises on her cheek is remarkable, like in this second she's realising what's happening. Where they're going and most certainly what they're going to do.

He watches the line of her throat as she swallows, slowly. It's so tempting to crush her against the thin piece of wood and slide his mouth over the lines of her throat, the curves of her body. But they're not alone.

He realises she's flicking her eyes, motioning him forwards, directing him to move around her and head down the thin corridor ahead of her.

He does so reluctantly, removing himself, sliding hands slowly from her body, deliberate. He doesn't want to move away because she's about to-

She shoves him, hands on his hips as she moves herself off the wall, running her hands around his body, touching and directing. Apparently she can't bear to lose the contact either.

"Castle," she says softly.

"Huh?" he huffs, soft and deliberate, forcing himself not to turn around because she's still pushing on his back, hands fisted in the hot clammy material, knuckles grazing his skin, and if he turns around, if he thinks about this and is honest with her, she'll run.

He can't let her run, not from him and not from them.

And he thinks, just thinks, he has a way to stop her.

The fists lift, drag across his back, touching skin through material. Then he realises she's untucking more of his shirt.

Open palms is all he can feel and then the graze of her nails as she teases the skin on his back. He wants to stop and force her to continue, let her take her time and torment him, in all the best possible ways.

But they can't.

This is a public place.

"Go ahead," she says softly.

Now he's confused.

He wants to ask, but vocalising it just seems to make the point moot.

He spins and faces her, hands already so close to her body that he can feel the material of her dress beneath them.

But then it's gone.

Or maybe it wasn't there in the first place.

Her hands are on his arms, hard, fingertips pressing into all those tiny muscles, drawing them apart, squashing the tension and the tendons. But she's raised an eyebrow at him. "Through the door, Rick." He watches her struggle to say it, and he feels like an arse for it.

Until she backs him into the small room, drops his arm and reaches for the knob herself, almost toppling him over, his weight so set against the wood that it moves quicker than he expected.

He's hazy not drunk. But he finds a grip on her elbows, insistent and certain, but still not tight. He won't mark her, not there.

"Stairs," is all she says, barely a whisper but it's a warning. A serious warning.

She doesn't want him to hurt himself, fall on his arse and ruin whatever moment this is.

He chances a glance behind him and sure enough, stairs. Not too many of them, probably six, but enough that if he fell it would certainly put a dampener on their evening.

But then she's moving around him, taking the lead once more. Why exactly he isn't sure. Hell, he couldn't even tell you what part of the restaurant they're in – all he can do is focus on her. And not falling down the stairs.

Not falling down the stairs is important.

But his foot stomps the ground then, searching for a step much further below the one his foot finds.

He stops.

And she doesn't, stepping away – just out of reach.

But her fingers are on his forearm, his still at her elbow and she tugs him closer, not with the elbow, but with her fingers, drawing him along, pushing buttons. He is so attuned, he just knows.

Follow her.

"You coming? Or are you just going to stand there thinking about it?"

He drops her elbow, grabs both her hips and forces her through the doorway. He is most certainly not going to stand there thinking about it.

And neither is she.

He spins her, catching the wooden door in his hand and moving her back against it. He is most certainly not going to press her against the toilet at the other end of the short room.

"The bathroom? Really?" he asks, cheek against hers as her arms hold him close, draped around his neck like this is the most normal thing in the world, like this is typical for them. it's not typical for them to sneak into bathrooms, it's not even typical for her to be this close.

"Hmm," she shrugs. "We couldn't leave, everyone would see." She's certain, and sure and it's making his body hum.

"Everyone already saw," he manages to form coherent thought. They stop though, as soon as the words are out of his mouth. His body is met with hers as he attempts to take another step, still yet to feel her hit the wall. But then she's sandwiched between the door and himself and he feels her inhale sharply, her mouth open against his skin already, teasing with her tongue, hard and insistent.

He's paralysed, but she's not, so he keeps his weight against her, letting himself have a second, to enjoy her certainty and her need.

She undoes a button on his shirt, maybe two, and opens the material, leaving his neck, the top of his chest and hints of his shoulders open to her attentions, awaiting her perusal.

He presses his mouth to her, her cheek long ago vanishing beneath his. The tendon is taunt under his mouth as he sucks lightly at her skin. But then he feels her swallow, quick and desperate, the ragged breath at his own neck sucking air across his wet skin, and it slackens beneath his mouth, just for half a second.

He nips it with his teeth as soon as it's tense then slides his mouth over the length of it, finding the crook of her neck and her already exposed shoulder.

She drops his skin as he nips and sucks on her clavicle. She's already breathless, breathing erratic beneath him, the rise and fall of her chest hitting his chin. He slides his tongue along the curve of the bone and feels her slide her hands to his waist.

He feels her untuck his shirt but he can't feel anything else, not until her hands slide between them and fumble with his belt. He wants to pull back, be helpful, but first, he presses her hands deep into his stomach, back into her own, as he forces himself closer.

He feels the breathy laugh against his neck, then the open mouth again, quick. "Give me a second," she whispers.

He does and reluctantly removes the pressure on his pelvis, removes himself from the heat of her body. He waits for her to tug at the belt, slide it free and drop it to floor. But she doesn't, it never falls.

She slides her fingers beneath the waistband of his pants instead, draws him closer again.

He takes that as permission to grind against her again.

When her breath catches he knows he made the right call.

She forces her hands between them again, fingers undoing the top button of his dark jeans, quick and efficient, as he slides his hands down her back. He can be as quick and efficient.

He draws her off the wall back against him with a quick movement as soon as she finds the top of his zipper.

He feels her laugh against his neck, mouth travelling again, so he arches his neck, lets her explore skin.

Then her hips are gone, removed from his and the zipper must be down because she's already moving along the top, fingers digging beneath, grabbing the elastic of his boxers as she goes, dislodging so she can-

She drops his pants, not far, just a few inches. And he realises-

"You are a tease," he offers, remembering. He has no work to do.

"It's not like this was planned Castle," she shrugs, shoulder knocking his chin so he drops his mouth, sucking on skin as she continues. "I couldn't find any clean underwear this morning."

He groans and presses her so deep into the door he knows it's creaking, shifting beneath their weight. He likes that thought, their weight, shared and common. Like they only have each other to worry about.

"All day?" he asks, astonishing and not caring. "You've been commando all day?"

"What? Did you want me to tell you what kind of underwear I'm wearing? I'll just send you a message each time I get dressed, shall I?"

"Please do," he manages between a nip at her skin. "Though it could be very-"

"No." She's serious, certain.

He doesn't care, like she'd ever agree to something like that. But he wants her to admit, progress. Though her mouth finds his ear, teeth at the earlobe, mouth open and insistent. That's progress.

"You can find out on your own."

He swallows, forces himself to clear his head and process what she just said. "What?" he manages, turning to face her, dislodging her mouth with his temple at her cheek.

"You can find out on your own what panties I'm wearing." She doesn't blink once. It's like she doesn't realise what this is doing to him.

"How?" He's an idiot, an idiot. But he goes with it, fists his hands in the material of her dress, hiking it up those same few inches she dropped his pants.

"You work it out. I'm not going to tell you."

Okay, now she's just being provocative. Which kind of teasing she's going for here, he isn't sure but he'll take either.

"How?"

Really, can he say nothing else?

She grips the elastic of his pants, dropping them another few inches.

He buries his face in her neck, in the loose hair and groans, sliding her dress higher. Too high, they're not equal anymore.

She drops a few inches and he curls his body around her, chasing the sinking shoulder to slide his tongue over it.

She's taken off her shoes.

He's amazed by the change it stirs in him, recognition that she's not as equal to him as he thought. She doesn't stand quite as tall, there is a rouse there, a false security, shrouded by a badge and three inch heels. But she's still herself, he's seen past the mask for as long as he can remember. She's just never realised how much, never let him see the truth by her own choosing, only letting him in a fraction on days when she can't hold the hatch shut herself. But stepping out of her shoes, being true to herself, it's like she's showing him. He wouldn't mind her digging the heels into his arse, but this, this difference, is better. He realises he's dislodged her dress and bra strap with his movements. He sucks the skin of her shoulder into his mouth, the slight dip in her skin where the bra settles, digging in and supporting her.

He feels her shift, lift her shoulder slightly, further into his mouth. So he sucks the skin deeper, soothing what he's sucking with his tongue. When he needs to breath, damn lungs, he soothes it with his tongue, breath ragged as she breathes beneath him, so far below him now.

"You okay?" she asks quietly, leaning back against the door to watch him, a hand in his hair, twirling at the nape of his neck.

He shivers and stops paying so much attention to her shoulder to answer her. He doesn't like towering over her; they're equals, so he stays at her level, bending his knees slightly so he can make eye contact. He realises she's drawn away from his body, their only points of contact his mouth and their hands. So he lowers his hands, letting the material drop over his hands now they're back on her thighs.

"I'm good. Are you?"

She nods and smirks, moving her hands to his shoulders and pressing down, urging him to lift her with a distinct lack of words. For someone who loves to read and for someone who writes, they don't use a lot of words. There has never been a need.

He barely has to lift her because she's already hoisting herself up to his stomach, setting herself there. Her hands back in his hair as soon as she's settled against him, legs secure, arms certain.

She guides his head back with her hands, away from the chest heaving in front of him.

"I'm sure. I get it," she admits. "Once we do this, we can't take it back. But…"

"You're ready?"

"Not what I was going to say." She shakes her head. "I don't think I'll ever be as ready as I want to be."

He presses his mouth to the underside of her jaw, quickly darting his tongue out, reminding her they haven't got all day. But showing her he understands.

"But I know now, I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." She slides her heels down his arse, catching the material and tugging it further down.

He presses her into the door, hard, setting her there, so he can drop his own pants. He's not having the belt or the zip dig into her legs. They are not the marks he'll be leaving, not this time.

"Are you?" she asks quietly as he lets his pants slide down his legs, her legs lifted from his to allow them to do so.

He grips the underside of her knee, her thigh, grabs her arse, hooking her back around himself. "More than. But we do have one problem," he offers.

"Which is?" He watches her swallow, chooses to press his mouth along the line of her throat.

"I don't have a-"

"I thought you were observant, Castle?"

He swallows. He's missed something. He has to have, so he sucks the base of her throat into his mouth, dipping his tongue into the hollows and then nipping at her clavicles again.

"Pill," she manages, pushing his head to the left – her left, his right.

"Oh," he groans and presses her deeper into the wall.

"Stop stalling," she manages, fingers so tight at his scalp, heels insistent at his arse.

He speaks against her wet neck. "One condition," he whispers, knowing she can hear him. She would hear this over the thunder of a plane landing over them.

"Spit it out, Castle." She's getting impatient beneath him, arching as he sucks a blood vessel into his mouth.

"We do this again, properly, slowly." He swallows and presses his mouth to her skin. "Let me take you home, I don't care which, and show you properly," he mutters.

She nods, forehead against the side of his head. "Yes, I wasn't planning to go home alone after this."

"Oh really?" he teases, sliding his hands along the backs of her thighs, smiling against her skin as he feels her twitch, hips bucking against his stomach. She really is getting impatient.

"Yes," she bites as she grips his arse with her legs and pushes her shoulders against the door and draws him closer with her legs, forcing him to take half a step forward. It's a small half; the twist of his pants around his ankles limits things considerably.

"Wait," he says quickly. He grips her arse tight, holding her up because she's letting herself slide down his body, too impatient.

He feels her grip him, taking a second to meet his gaze to study his face. "What?" she asks, clearly he didn't provide an explanation, at least not one she understood.

"I haven't kissed you," he mutters, already moving closer. "I'm not kissing you and kissing you for the first time-"

"Do you not remember-"

"Hush." He raises an eyebrow, a 'let me finish' that she understands completely. "I want to kiss you properly, no disguise of cover and most certainly not in the middle of what's about to start-" he draws back as she chuckles.

"You're such a girl," she offers, by way of explanation.

"I most certainly-"

"Yeah, okay. What's pressing against my thigh is not at all-"

He steals her mouth, stops her right there in the middle of a tease, an innuendo, like he's wanted to do countless times before. But this time, it's as much the truth as it is anything else.

He feels her open her mouth and force her tongue along the edge of his mouth, he obliges another request.

When he feels her hands on his face he groans. He wants to touch her hair, they're doing this wrong.

So out of order.

But so them.

* * *

><p><em>There will be more. I can't leave it there right?<em>


	3. Chapter 3

The pinch of his mouth against her bottom lip, closing her mouth to words has her tongue already there, poised and ready. And she's aching to slide it further, but he's nipping at her mouth with his, short kisses. She'll get her chance.

She shivers as he presses his mouth to hers for what must be the fifth or sixth time. He's being too cautious, savouring the moment he's created for them a little too much. So seens he's not seizing his chance, she'll take it from him.

As soon as she touches her tongue to the edge of his lip sliding along the smile creasing his mouth, he opens his mouth and sucks her tongue into his mouth, already sliding his over it. It's still slow and languid, like they've got all the time in the world, like they're doing this properly. They don't and they're not.

She doesn't mind and it seems neither does he. It's not like anything else about their partnership has been typical.

She touches her tongue to the roof of his mouth as his tongue draws back to swallow, or breath – she doesn't know, doesn't care.

She touches his jaw, a light graze, a test. He groans in response, his chest coming down on hers tighter, more secure, that she cares about. So she opens her hand along his jaw, angling his head and lifting hers from the wall, leaning into his body more.

She feels his body tense against her as she touches her fingers to his jaw, scratching the stubble she finds there. His fingers sink deeper into her legs, clutching her thighs, she arches against him a little, following the guide of his grip further into his body. Though that is entirely the wrong place she should be-

He bites her bottom lip quickly, sucks it into his mouth and she draws away, letting him chase, trying to maintain the contact.

When she smirks at him he smiles widely and closes his mouth over hers, no hesitation in using his tongue this time.

She scratches her fingers over the angle of his chin, feeling the movement on the underside against her fingers.

Instead of the shudder she wants to allow, she nips at his tongue as it works its way into her mouth.

She drops it though, slides her mouth back from his as he groans again, shifting the attentions of her mouth to the stubble at his jaw. It's course against her mouth, under her tongue but he keeps swallowing making noises in his throat.

She's not even sure he knows he's doing it.

"Enough," she decides softly, mouth still to his skin, not really stopping.

But he makes her, he manages to unhook her mouth from his skin and force her back against the wall to meet her gaze. She wants to smile, she was already smiling, but it dropped from her face at his serious expression. He's checking again to see if she's sure.

It's sweet, he's amazing and endearing, and now he's smirking at her because she's smirking at him.

But he's only leaned in a fraction, closed a quarter of the distance between his mouth. He's too patient for his own good.

For her own good.

And Kate Beckett is not a patient person, not when a man has her pressed up against a wall, pants at his ankles and her arse in his hands, poised, ready and waiting. There is very little patience left in her.

But because this is Richard Castle, who is… everything, she's got to hold herself back, stop being quite so insistent.

He shifts his weight under her, hands trembling slightly as he shifts, his leg brushing a new section of her skin. She hears her own shuddered breath and buries her face in his neck again.

She digs her heel into his arse in response, a silent plea.

He said they'd do it properly later.

And she agreed.

So later.

Slower, more exploratory and more certain.

Thus will be quick and to the point but she's certain. He wouldn't be letting it happen if he wasn't either.

She drops her heel from his arse, letting it hang almost limp along the length of his leg, skimming the back of his knee.

He buckles a little under the shock of her foot at his knee and grips her arse as he moves himself forwards. She keeps her hands at his shoulders to prevent herself falling. But he won't drop her, he wouldn't ever let her get that far from his body at least not now. He barely let her out of arms reach before.

She nips the skin of his shoulder then soothes the spot with her tongue, deft and certain. She's trying not to shake because he's letting her new position, the shift in her centre of gravity lower her. She's trying to make a sound and he knows – he always knows.

He presses his mouth to her shoulder, apparently having the same problems. His mouth finds the same spot, the spot he sucked so hard on before she's sure it's already bruising. His movements are swift, lighter, faster – less longing and more...

He drops her weight down, somehow managing to have her dress slide her down the wall, her shoulders already angled toward him, already off the wall must have helped. She's at his whim and doesn't care.

He's met her half way, literally and it's too easy, too simple to just have herself slide down his body.

It's not some epic union stolen from a movie or even a book. It's them, the way they work together, they way they've always worked together – give and take.

She exhales hot against his wet skin, a hint of a sigh escaping her mouth – that or it's half a moan. She clenches around him, arms and legs holding tight because she's not about to lose this, not as long as they can both-

She feels him shudder.

She feels him exhale against her skin, nipping.

He removes a hand from beneath her dress, keeping his other one tight on her arse, his hand wedged behind her, thumb hooked around her hip, a silent command not to move.

She's about to arch against the command, the stubborn man trying to tell her what to do and how to do this, but then she's distracted by his other hand.

His movement is swift, quick as he tugs the straps off her shoulders, she understands.

Why didn't he do this before though?

She's the one who quivers as he skims his hand down her back, dancing his fingers across the skin between her scapulas, grazing the processes of her spine, letting each finger slide into the contours and-

Damn it.

"I swear to God if you don't-" she bites, threatening, trying for menacing but coming off more frustrated.

He presses his mouth to the ridge of her shoulder, further across her back than she realised he was, but he's tall and she's curled around him, so it shouldn't surprise her that he can suck a tender spot on the edge of her scapula. He pulls the muscle into his mouth as he finds the top of her zipper, working it loose.

He's lucky she was as unbothered about leaving the tiny clasp undone as she was about wearing no underwear.

She wriggles her shoulders so the straps fall further.

But he stops as soon as she does it and brings his hand back around to grab her other hip, stopping her with a thumb there too.

She presses her heels into his arse, forcing him deeper, a fact he forgot.

He trails his mouth across her shoulder and she has to lean against the wall, away from his neck, to allow his movements.

He drops his thumbs and she squirms against him.

A noise escapes the back of her throat, soft and strangled as he traces the line of her throat, finally moving against her.

He huffs against her skin and drops his mouth just below the line of her dress, stealing the skin in his mouth.

She meets him halfway the third time he moves, finding his rhythm. It's natural enough, normal enough, but so typical of their relationship. Except this time, he's setting the pace, literally.

"Do it again," he huffs against her skin a second later, or maybe it's been more – she doesn't know, doesn't care. She's given up counting.

"Do what?" she asks, pressing her mouth to the line of his throat, once, hot and open.

He draws back from her shoulder, shifting his feet a little so he can stand a little straighter in front of her. He steals the skin of her throat and speaks against it, against her ear too.

"Moan, in my ear, again." He's short of breath, throat starting to tighten already as he fights for control. She'd noticed the intensity of his pace, increasing, building beneath her and matched him, probably increased it herself at several points.

"Oh?" she asks. "Really?" She's teasing, being quite horrible if she's honest with herself. but even her voice at his neck, speaking to her as he arches his hips into hers, as deep as he can physically go. It all tells her he's holding on for her sake.

"Hmm," he hums against her throat.

"Earn it," she challenges.

He swallows, she feels it under her mouth even though she's got her mouth under his ear. It's that tight, that controlled and calculated that she knows he won't hesitate.

She doesn't want him to either.

* * *

><p><em>Now, I know this one is kinda short BUT it has a lot in terms of progress and the next chapter will be insanely long.<br>So I hope y'all don't mind : )  
>Thoughts? I love to hear them and so many of you are sharing them, thank you! <em>


	4. Chapter 4

His body shudders as she does it again.

She makes the noise and his knees almost give out under the weight of holding himself up, the weight of keeping her with him – every step of the way.

She doesn't even realise she's doing it. She's stifling moans, catching them on her tongue. He can hear the hitches in her throat, her mouth so close to his ear that he can hear every single noise, even those she strangles them and they die before they reach her own lips.

He disrupts their rhythm when he hears it, the stifled moan, realising what caused it and how he can repeat it. He traps her hard against the door, stopping the roll of her hips, the bumps and the grinds.

He's delighted with himself as she gasps, shocked for half a second that he's disrupted their rhythm, but her shoulders slacken against the door, a distinct rattle, and he knows she's regained some of that control at the sound.

She jerks a little as she comes into contact with it, like she forgot the door behind her was there. "Shift so-"

He cuts her off, stealing her mouth once again as she squirms beneath him a little, too enticing and completely deliberate in the tease – he's sure. "Not moving, don't care." He huffs the words into her mouth after he's slid his tongue over hers, finding the edge of her tongue sliding back into his mouth, following his words.

He wants to shudder as she dances her tongue through his mouth, lets him continue to keep her pressed so tight against the wall, hands under her arse preventing her movements while he continues his own.

She chuckles, a stifled moan creeping out the edges of the noise reverberating through her chest and his. A sound deep with arousal and a contentment he can't quite place.

"If someone-"

He interrupts again. "They'll know, Kate."

She presses her ankles hard against his arse, levering herself so she can move too, join the pace he's managing to maintain, around words – so many words. No lingering looks, just noise, audible noise. It's so rare for the two of them.

They're not quite being direct, though they are most certainly to the point.

Her breath hitches, still in his mouth, as she drops her weight down, sliding her body those few inches down the door, the material of her dress slick along the wood.

She huffs a breath as he lets her slide but nothing more. Doesn't unwrap his fingers from her skin or loosen his vice of a grip.

"How will they?" She sounds disbelieving.

He drops his mouth to the skin under her clavicle, trailing along the curve of the bone, chin grazing her chest, her sternum too, as he moves across. "Door," he manages, brushing his teeth over skin, dragging his lower incisors across a rib, lip hitching, stopping, as he grows lazier, lingering with the taste of her skin.

"It's not… You think someone's waiting?"

"Ha," he says to her skin, muffled by the fact he's dragging his chin across the edge of her bra, following the strap he half flicked off her shoulder. "Don't care," his voice is soft as he slides his tongue across the fat, the connective tissue, finally able to brush his teeth across skin and catch it between them, nip and soothe it with his tongue.

She doesn't say anything just inhales, dragging her chest upwards, angling it under his mouth, like she's urging him to continue to taste the skin she's exposing with her movements, the skin he's slowly revealing with his own.

He drags his mouth across every inch skin beneath it in a two second dash back to her mouth.

She swallows around his tongue, taken by surprise. Good, she ought to be.

And she shows it, dropping a hint she is almost unaware of.

"Again," he mutters against her lips, her tongue stealing the words, drinking them in.

He feels her open her mouth to respond, become distracted as she tries to speak through his swift motion, too well timed – he knows her too well.

Her body arches beneath him, hips jostling the door as she lifts to press against his body, legs clinging so tightly to him he can't think straight. Her shoulders are heavy on the door and he slides his hands up her back, skimming the small, dancing across the skin, exploring the dip.

Her body goes slack again, chasing his as he retreats, heavy and content as he moves to do it again.

He hears the way she forces control, steals her voice before she speaks. It's completely silent, but still so audible, to him – he hears everything she doesn't say, always has. "I told you…" she manages but then she abandons speech, discontinues it in favour of a response, to another well-timed movement.

He's trying to catch her off guard, and to his own surprise, is succeeding.

The noise that escapes her mouth sounds more like an 'oof' than a moan.

She's containing them, hiding them from him. Still.

But no more hiding.

Half-naked in a restaurant's restroom is not exactly a time for modesty.

"Relax," he mutters.

"I am." The protest is soft, she knows it not true just like he does. But she forges on. "If you don't think I'm-"

He wants to laugh at her, defiant and stubborn and as sexy as she's ever been, arching beneath him, body beginning to twitch in time with his own, so in sync he can't tell who is causing which movements. But she's fighting it, holding on and holding out.

She needs to stop, he understands why she is hesitating, but she's not helping either of them.

Not right now.

"Kate," he mumbles, interrupting. He feels her shift beneath him again, arch against the door again – how they're holding a conversation is beyond him, but this comes so naturally. He's waited so long, considered all the possibilities, that this defiance is one thing he'd thought of years ago – once he cracked her shell, realised she was more than this mysterious woman who wouldn't give an inch, not when he asked for something and most certainly not when he begged. His mind worked from scenarios of fulfilling need, quick and dirty – kind of like this, to more slow, exploratory as he maps which areas of her body he will explore, the ways he will use his mouth and body to make her writhe beneath him – how he will later.

"Uh-huh," she responds.

Seems she's not so good with words in this moment, a sign in of her fight, how her reasons are crumbling around her, despite her efforts to guard herself. The words are caught in her throat with the moans, with the orgasm she's stifling, pushing back while she hesitates – a little late for that now and he knows she realises that.

He does suppose she has a point, once it happens, once she quivers around him and beneath him and slides down his body and her feet hit the floor, they have to right themselves, head back to the table, either making excuses to leave or behave and stay.

Her quip with Lanie makes him think they'll be leaving. Or she will be, and if she doesn't freak, doesn't run, she'll be taking him with her.

But she doesn't seem to be… running.

"Castle," she bites. In this moment that should be the way she says his name, harsh and breathy. But the reasoning isn't right. She's grabbing his attention because he was supposed to be making a point.

Right.

He closes his mouth over hers, quickly, flicking his tongue over her mouth, touching each corner, each crevice.

He withdraws and she presses her shoulders to the wall, her head too, meeting his gaze, curious, flushed and-

He is getting distracted again.

He grunts as she lets him crash her against the door (again) with another noise – an improvement but not enough.

"What's stopping you?"

She looks taken aback.

But he doesn't exactly have time to dance around the issue, prolong this inevitable conclusion and he wants her there too. And she is, already – he's almost certain she's been holding it back since she arched the first time.

"Exactly," he answers for her, "nothing."

She chews her lip and he joins her, nips at her top lip so she drops the bottom one. He slides his tongue over it, soothing and nipping once or twice, for good measure.

She forces her tongue between his lips, sliding between teeth still holding her lip, defiant and certain.

Then she shakes her head against his. "Words," she manages.

He arches a brow, and like she can see it, she responds accordingly.

"Talk to me," she says softly, a noise itching in the back of her throat.

He can't refuse that, he can't deny her anything – but words… that he can do.

"Hmm," he says softly, "what do you want me to say?" If he's going to do this, talk to her, she needs to clarify what she wants, which words – he has to be certain, he can barely form a coherent sentence, let alone weave her an image, tell her a-

She shudders under his mouth.

"Anything," she groans and arching against him, rocking her hips, setting a pace he's more than happy to match.

"So the sound of my voice…" He's curious, kind of teasing. He has to make the most of this, right? She'd think less of him if he didn't.

"Shut up," she bites, the butt of her heels drawing him as close her body can manage as soon as he draws back, just a fraction. Her fingers are deep in his shoulders, clinging.

"Oh well then I'll just stop-"

"Don't," she gulps around the word

He hums and sets his mouth to her neck, against the larynx that's rising and falling. "Well then stop interrupting."

"I'm not…" she huffs a breath, lifting hair off her cheek, skirting his as it rises and falls.

"You are. Because that's what you do, what we do. We finish each other's sentences. We fight," she quivers, "but you enjoy it. You like when I give you some crazy theory. You like my books-"

She opens her mouth and the noise … that noise was significantly less strangled. But still, she's not there yet.

"- but I'm pretty sure," he trails off.

She grunts at him, a huff and a protest.

"I need…"

"What?" she asks, forcing air between her teeth.

"A second," he bites, the words and with his teeth, a soft nip – a coax and a plea.

"Speechless?"

He huffs, agreement to her skin.

"Words."

"Really?" he asks.

She hums, a tease.

He groans and finds her ear, sliding his tongue along the soft skin of the shell, skirting edges, following boundaries. "if you don't stop fighting this-" he thrusts against her then withdraws completely "-then you are going to be left-" he crushes her body to the door, the body that chased his back in his retreat "-very, very frustrate-"

"No."

He swallows, flicks his tongue behind her ear, exhaling harshly onto the wet skin of her ear, folded awkwardly beneath his cheek.

"Yes," he corrects. "Because if you-"

His head whips around as soon as her mouth drops to his jaw, meeting her as she draws back for breath.

"If you," he speaks softly into her mouth, "don't-"

She sinks her teeth into his lower lip.

He groans and withdraws from her, almost completely, and she stops too, waiting.

Their stubborn wills have meet more times in the last week than he cares to recognise, but in the entirety of their partnership, this has to be the longest she's ever held out, especially when he was so sincere, so attuned to her need and so ready to give her everything she needs and wants and doesn't even realise. Sure it started with coffee, but the edge she's skirting – she needs to stop being so stubborn.

She sucks his lip into her mouth and he feels the twitch of her ankle at his arse, insistent and trying for control. But she lacks the upper hand, and she knows it, so she draws his lip deeper into her mouth and nips at the edge, quick and agile – using what she can.

But he doesn't flinch, except the gush of air that rushes out of his mouth, a hitch in his own throat.

She opens her mouth to –

He doesn't know what she was going to do. It doesn't really matter.

He takes another opportunity and brings her flush against him again, clinging as she arches against him, his mouth and clings to his body. It shouldn't work, but it does.

They work, when they shouldn't.

But he's succeeded.

Finally.

The groan she emits, the clench of her teeth on his lip and hers, as she relinquishes control, drops a battle and starts at his arse again, her ankles instructing, has him following her lead.

Finally.

She drops his mouth and pulls his head to her ear.

"Ugh," she huffs. "Again."

He chuckles as soon as she begs, already obliging – she doesn't need to ask, not when she's succumbing, quivering and twitching, writhing against him.

She nips his earlobe as he withdraws, sucking the flap into her mouth.

Waiting, preparing, for repetition.

He makes her wait, until she has to breath around his earlobe (luckily she's more than short of breath so it only takes a second for her to release the flap of skin) and snatch it back between her teeth, he waits until she groans with it – frustration of her own.

He interrupts half way through, giving her more than enough reason to justify the change in her pitch, the hitch in her voice as she loses the voice to convey it.

And her control.


	5. Chapter 5

_This one is quite a bit different from the last one, so..._

* * *

><p>She knows she doesn't generally give this man as much information as he needs. She knows she doesn't offer enough of herself to him.<p>

She knows that.

But she tries.

And she keeps trying.

That's what counts.

She knows he understands that she's healing, progressing. She can feel it, and then, hopefully, she will be able to give him everything he needs, wants and deserves. He'd tell her now, if he knew this, that as she is now, she is enough. But she knows she's not enough, not just yet, not for him.

But they're here.

Here, in a tiny bathroom, some dingy toilet really, with his pants at his ankles, her ankles hooked at his arse trying to fight against his withdrawal and literally pull him back into her to reform the connection that has finally become a physicality. It's a pinnacle of heat and tension that most certainly hasn't fizzled, hasn't fallen flat. And the way he's moving, what he's doing – what she knows he's trying to do – and what he's succeeding in doing to her has her quivering with the sensations.

He's coaxing moans from her, forcing out words through the haze of his arousal, instead of plying her with coffee and sprouting farfetched hypotheses. It should be a drastic shift, but in actuality it's just a long time coming, a release of tension built-up. So now he can tease her with his body _and_ his words, and she can follow suit, follow through on promises and-

He's stopped.

"Ugh," she huffs. "Again."

She's requesting and communicating as best she can while he stays too far withdrawn while she sucks at his ear, still thinking too vividly and too-

She breathes against his neck, hot and open, almost a gasp.

And he's laughing. Well, not laughing. It's a throaty, clouded chuckle, so gruff with his arousal and his awareness that she wants to wipe off the smirk she knows is playing on his lips. He knows exactly what he's doing to-

The force of his thrust lifts her body. His hips are a guide leading her entire body up the wall a good few inches.

_Oh God._

She curls her toes into the skin of his arse, the twitch that he's sent through her body is culminating at her toes. But it isn't enough space for it to reach, it is looking for an exit it can't find. It runs back along the arch of her foot as she clenches around him. Then it's backtracking, twitching her legs again.

The jolt licks at the underside of her knee, causing her hips to flick a little at the way he shifts in response, meeting her, exceeding expectations while she her body clenches around him, holding tight, not ready to let go.

She wants to groan and shift again, clench around him tighter, but he's already withdrawing, sliding back out, letting her body sag heavily into his waiting hands as she chases. She doesn't catch him, her body left clenching at the space he should be, the space she needs him to refill.

Now.

A swift flick of his fingers over the back of her thighs, soft and teasing, causes her to tighten her arse as well, show him how cruel he's being in this second. She needs him to do it again.

Now.

It's not enough to persuade him to close the distance and groan against her skin as he lifts her against the door again, inserts himself into her so deep she's only supporting by his hips at hers, lifting with a single thrust.

Damn.

He needs to finish what he started.

Her mouth at his ear is too good an opportunity to miss.

She bites the still swollen flap, grazing her teeth across the edge before nipping and sucking, trying to pull it deep into her throat. A message she hopes she's conveying.

But he doesn't follow, doesn't oblige, doesn't move.

He doesn't follow a simple instruction, typical.

She exhales, forced to by a burn that's lingering in her lungs and frustrated by her need and his absence, his control. Her fierce grip on the lobe slips and she groans against the side of his face, sucking the air in past his ear.

Damn.

How can she convey what she wants, what she needs if she doesn't have the only weapon at her disposal (well…) at her disposal?

She opens her mouth to grab the lobe, steal it between her lips, but she doesn't.

She can't.

Instead she freezes.

She stops breathing.

She's too shocked.

Too surprised.

Too distracted.

All from the jolt of his pelvis, the crash of her body back against the door as he slides himself back into her so forcefully, so swift and quick, that she slides even further up the wall.

Is he standing on his toes?

She doesn't know.

She doesn't care.

She wants to beg again, stop him making her suffer with these short little pauses and abrupt returns.

But she can't.

She can't even find the voice to groan against his neck as her body spasms once, clenching around him like a vice.

_Oh God._

She hears him exhale and feels his fingers deep in her thighs, gripping tight as he shift again, withdrawing-

She sighs, half a moan, almost disapproval. But the way her body is still quivering from the jolt has her losing track. But it seems he's had enough of it too. That or he can't torture her any longer because he's also torturing himself.

She matches him as he sets a quicker pace.

_Finally._

She quivers as he trails a hand up to the small of her back, fingers creeping, like he's searching for-

Oh.

Her hips lift and she gasps.

He does it again, slides his fingers over the small of her back, just tickling.

He's done it a million times. Some daily ritual, a guiding hand, but…

Oh.

So simple but it has her quivering. Well… she was already quivering but now he's setting such a pace and caressing her skin so gently that-

He grunts as she opens her mouth to his skin, grazing teeth over a muscle stretching his skin taunt. She hums against him as he rocks her against the door again, forgetting to move herself, distracted by teeth and tongue – just this once. His fingers a tangle at her back and give a quick swipe as he eases himself out of her.

No more withdrawals. Not cruel and taunting withdrawals.

But she doesn't miss the twitch of his body.

She sucks at the skin again and forces a heel deep into his arse.

She gasps as he moves deeper, maintaining pace.

He slips his hand back to her arse, grip tight as he guides her closer, forcing the quivers, the clenches closer as he slides her forward with his hands. He's encouraging, but she doesn't need it – not to meet him in the quick thrusts, helping him keep them as deep and rhythmic as they can be. Because neither of them can hold out much longer. And he knows it too. But he needs her there with him.

And she needs him there too.

She's got his back.

Well, she always has his back, watching out for him and keeping him alive when he's idiotic and (almost) unknowingly walking into the line of fire.

But now she's _got_ his back. Fingers sliding over his skin, sinking into his shoulders, clutching to him – not exactly for traction, but it helps, even though his skin is slick with sweat.

"Cas-" she starts.

But can't finish.

She can't give any response other than fingernails biting his skin, her tongue hot on his neck, sucking and lavishing.

He's found a niche, a deep crevice as the spasms of their bodies meld so completely, fuse and lock, that they are perfectly synced. Each twitch of his, coordinated too well with the pulsations throbbing through her walls. It has her gripping to his shoulders, walls clenching tight to him, keeping him locked in place for glorious half-second bursts.

No more empty space.

There is certainly no more empty space.

She buries her nose in his hairline, mouth tucked behind his ear.

"Kate," he breathes. She can feel his hands quivering against her, fingers nimble and twitching.

"Uh?" she manages to respond as her body spasms, another nerve licking twitch.

She hears the stifled groan, him trying to force his mouth to behave, just for half a second. "I need you to…" He trails off, the hitch in the back of his throat makes her falter again.

It has him press her harshly against the door, catching her arse on his knuckles. She hears the breath he lets out, but he doesn't even flinch, rhythm undisturbed. If she was able to think clearly she'd make a note to check later but-

"What?" she breathes, shuddering with her own moan, letting the tail end of it slip as she slides her tongue along the shell of his ear.

He huffs a few quick breaths, gives a few more thrusts. "Come with me," he manages.

She laughs on an exhale, soft and knows he won't mind. She's seen his face when she does those things. And she's too distracted by his movements, her body's responses making thought, impossible.

"Home," he manages as he does just that. He drives it home.

But that's not what he meant. He meant later, but right now, is he really going to discuss that _right now_?

She groans against his ear because her body is giving out and he's encouraging it, encouraging her.

"Don't stop." Her words are harsh bites against his ear, mouth open against the skin beneath it. She finds hair meeting her tongue, catching her teeth. She's shuddering so much with the force of their movements, with the magnitude of their responses that she can't pull back.

It doesn't matter.

"Keep…" she trails off. She doesn't need to bother to finish.

He opens his mouth to her throat, drops his head from her reach.

Damn.

But as soon as he slides his mouth along her shoulder, wet and open, she forgives the departure. When he sucks that well worn section of her shoulder into his mouth she groans.

"Oh God, Castle," she slurs it, arching her body into him, a foot dropping off his arse as her ankle flicks of its own choosing, licked by a wave of pleasure she didn't see coming. A wave coursing through her body so rapidly she gets hit from all sides.

No longer licking nerves, but touching every cell, every nook and cranny.

Coursing through her.

She gasps a breath and feels him quiver as the arch of her body shifts her, hips rolling against him, no more movement, her body too tight and too rigid to bother thrusting against him.

The whimper that escapes only spurs him on, forces him to give one swift flick, moving her rigid body up the wall, causing it to slacken then tighten again, more assured, more permanent.

They both arch against one another as he realises she made it and she realises he's joined her, both in the quiver of ecstasy.

She manages to get her foot back to his arse – like they need to be closer, like it will help, and feels him shiver and release within her.

He fumbles a slur of words, none coherent or forming any kind of sentence. Or maybe she's otherwise occupied.

It doesn't matter.

She wraps her legs tightly around him, uncrossing her ankles and setting them on his hips keeping him close.

He huffs a breath and slackens against the wall and drops several kisses to her shoulder as her body continues to dance around him, still riding those last few waves.

He hums against her as she slides her arms around his neck, realising her nails are still biting into his skin. His thumbs twitch on her skin, a reminder she's still fused against him, she doubts it's a request to move. Not yet anyway.

"Uh," she manages, toes still curling and uncurling against the spasms of her body.

"Sorry," he mutters, nudging her skin with his nose.

She doesn't lift her head from his shoulder, just flicks her pinkie finger out towards the marks she knows she left. "Even."

She doesn't add anything else, just lets her body return to normal, allow some oxygen into her lungs and calm the thrumming of her body back to a mild hum. And consider sliding down his body.

He seems to need to thirty seconds silence too. (She won't let her body get too calm.)

"Words?" he asks quietly, already sliding his hands down her thighs, finding the edge of her dress and smoothing his fingers over the edges, not really moving to put it back in place – more like dreading it.

She scoffs and slides a leg from around him, distracting him.

"Kate?" he asks.

"Rick?" she mocks.

"Hmm," he mutters, finding the line of her neck with his mouth. "Again."

This again? Really? "Why?" she asks softly. Her toes sink into his ruffled pants and slides quickly slides the other leg down too, feels him move closer so he doesn't lose their connection quite yet. He does however drop his hands from her hips and find her hairline.

"Normally you're so mad," he kisses the edge of her jaw and she pulls back so she can watch him, meet his gaze, "when you call me Rick. It's good to see you a very," he drops his mouth again, finding her chin, "distinct lack of frustration in your voice."

"You mean some post-sex haze?" she quips, challenging.

"Uh, don't put it like that." He drops his lips to her own, quick and brief as she toys with his collar, refolding it with nimble fingers. "But yeah," he says softly, agreeing anyway.

"Well, Rick," she drawls, deliberate and isn't surprised when she steals her mouth again, this time taking the time to slide his tongue over hers, deft and certain. "Got any excuses?" she asks quietly as she pulls back, sliding her hands down his sides, finding his hips with her fingers, hooking them around and skimming the skin she finds as she trails down to his thighs and back again.

"For?" He raises a brow.

"Lanie, the boys, everybody…"

She watches the understanding dawn on him. "Well we could be honest and-"

"No, I am not telling the boys what we just…" she falters, refocuses. "What just happened."

He hums, amused. "They probably know."

She rolls her eyes now that he can see, and flicks her thumbs against his hips, urging him to withdraw now the aftershocks have dissipated. But she didn't just keep him there so he could enjoy them too; she was just too comfortable to move.

"I was going to say we just tell them we're calling it a night. Didn't make it to the bar because I thought I was going to-"

She screws her face up and covers his mouth with her hand. "You weren't that… Yeah okay, they would probably believe it. At least long enough that we can… get away."

He kisses her palm. "Now you don't want me to talk, again?" he asks against her palm, opening his mouth against it quickly as she pulls away, expecting him to lick it like a six year old in an attempt to repulse her.

She narrows her eyes at him.

"You go ahead and I'll-"

She meets his mouth quickly, smirking. "You just want me to make excuses."

He shrugs. "Yeah."

"Okay, I'll-" She stops running her fingers over her hair at the look on his face. "What?"

"I just…" He sighs. "It's kind of a long time coming."

She rolls her eyes and resumes the check of her hair, finds it good enough. She flicks the straps back onto her shoulders, bra and dress coming back up. She steps forward into his chest a little more before spinning. "Can you?" she asks quietly.

He doesn't fumble or linger, just pulls the zip up and tugs once on the back of her dress, obviously fixing a rather obvious disturbance in its flow.

"I'll meet you at the door," he mutters to her shoulder only one hand at her hip now, the other skimming her elbow.

She regards the door, the moisture beaded on the wood, the slick sweat that oozed off her skin. Sherealises she needs to turn around and face him to say it.

So she turns slowly, feels his hand trail around to her other hip, dragging slowly across her stomach as she spins.

"Yeah," she says softly, adding a nod to accompany her voice, reinforcing it. "Take me home, Castle."

Certain.

_fin_

* * *

><p><em>Now, I know I <em>shouldn't_ leave it there but I'm going to.  
>I may do a sequel, I'm open to it if you want it but this one is finished.<em>


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